The Dwarves

VII

Giselbert's Folk, Fifthling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle Boпndil prodded the enormous skeleton with his boot.

Broken arrow shafts, lances, spears, and smaller bones lay in and around the dragon's remains. "Orcs. From the look of the bones, they killed her a good few cycles ago." He appraised the fossil critically and a look of distant longing passed over his face. "What a fight it must have been."

Goпmgar snorted and shrugged. "We're wasting our time here. We may as well go home. I don't know about you, but I'd like to be in my own kingdom with my own clansfolk when Nфd'onn comes banging on the gates."

"A fat lot of use you'd be," Boпndil said scornfully. "You can't even fight!" He gave one of the ribs an experimental kick. The bone stood firm.

"I didn't say anything about fighting," Goпmgar corrected him. "If we're all going to die, I'd rather be back in my kingdom, that's all. I don't want to meet my end in the company of an ax-happy lunatic, an impostor, and an undead drunk." He glanced at the smith. "No offense, Balyndis, I've got nothing against you."

"Couldn't we light the furnace with ordinary fire?" asked Furgas.

Tungdil looked out across the lava. "We may as well give it a shot. It's better than giving up and doing nothing while Nфd'onn lays waste to Girdlegard. We don't stand a chance of stopping him otherwise." He wiped the sweat from his eyes and peered at the tongues of fire licking across the lake. He had seen flames of all kinds and colors in his smithy, but these looked somehow different. "Is it my imagination," he said to Balyndis, who was similarly knowledgeable when it came to fire, "or are those flames unusually bright?"

"They're unusually bright," she said, guessing his thoughts. She pulled out a torch and held the end above the twisting flames. The wood flared up with incredible intensity.

"Perhaps you could put it out for us, Narmora," said the maga.

The half дlf nodded and focused her mind. Her eyes closed and opened again a moment later, but the torch was still alight. "I can't do it," she said, surprised. "Normally it's no-"

"Precisely." The maga laughed in relief. "There's your proof, Tungdil. Argamas left her fiery legacy in the lake."

The excitement was too much for Balyndis, who planted an exuberant kiss on Tungdil's cheek. He smiled shyly. "In that case we've got what we came for," he declared. "We'll light the torches and get going. The fifthlings' furnace is waiting to be kindled back to life." With that he set off toward the mouth of the tunnel.

"Bravo, bravo," gushed Rodario. "Thank goodness it's so warm down here. My ink has never flown so freely. Such emotion! Such excitement! The scene is positively begging to be recorded in my notes!" He was still scribbling furiously as he walked. "Furgas, my dear friend and worthy associate, the sheer scale of this adventure will soon exceed the limits of any conventional play. We could open our doors in the morning," he suggested. "Hire some extras, double the ticket price. What do you think?"

Furgas took one last look at Flamemere before commencing the ascent through the passageway. "We should probably leave out the lava," he ruled. "We won't be able to afford enough coal to simulate the heat."

"Good thinking. We need to be careful with the costs. Besides, we can't have our valued spectators vomiting because of the smell."

"They'll vomit anyway if they have to put up with your acting," said Boпndil, handing him a torch. "Take this. Since you won't be fighting, you may as well make yourself useful. And woe betide you if you let it go out!"

"I swear by all four winds and every conceivable divinity, even the evil ones, that if, in spite of my best efforts and the intervention of all the relevant weather systems and supernatural powers, I was to suffer such a mishap, then I would, no matter what the circumstances or the extent of my guilt, lay the blame, fair and square, at your door."

Boпndil, who had been nodding in satisfaction, stopped short. "Very funny," he growled as Rodario and Goпmgar fell about laughing. "I'll wipe the smiles from your faces."

Bavragor's behavior had become increasingly erratic.

Since entering the fifthling kingdom, he hadn't said a word, his one eye rolling wildly as he walked. Every now and then he growled or groaned for no apparent reason and the leather strap around his wrists tightened with a menacing snap. Djerun maintained a safe distance between him and the others.

Meanwhile, Boпndil was unhappy about the light from the torches, which he said drew attention to their presence and played into the enemies' hands-but no one could think of a workable alternative.

He was right, though. The fierce flames lit up the passage ways, the panels of vraccasium, palandium, gold, and silver gleaming with light, rendering even the smallest details visible from a distance of twenty paces and making the company equally easy to spot.

Tungdil ran a hand over the panels. They must have known we'd be in need of precious metals. At the risk of angering the dead fifthlings, he decided to break off sections of the portraits for use in making the ax. Djerun snapped the metal with ease and soon they had enough of each material for the inlay. All that was missing was the iron for the blade. He glanced at the ax that Lot-Ionan had given to him. I could smelt it, I suppose.

The company had been marching through the lost kingdom for some time when Boпndil signaled for them to stop. "There's something ahead," he said, tensing in anticipation. "Beasts of some kind, but not orcs."

Tungdil sniffed the air and detected the odor too. "They're in front of us." He turned to Narmora, who nodded briefly and set off to investigate.

"Come here, you cowards," thundered a deep voice from somewhere along the passageway. "It takes more than that to scare a dwarf!" A moment later, blades crashed against shields and high-pitched squeals rent the air. "I may be the last one standing, but I'll slay at least four dozen of you before you cut me down. Vraccas is with me!"

I know that voice, thought Tungdil. He was still trying to place it when someone got there first.

"King Gandogar!" shouted a jubilant Goпmgar. "Stand firm, Your Majesty, I'm on my way!" Discarding his heavy cloak, he grabbed his shield, whipped his sword from its sheath, and stormed forth.

"Such courage!" exclaimed Rodario. "What's got into old Shimmerbeard? I never thought he had it in him."

"Me neither," said Boпndil. "All the same, we shouldn't let him fight alone." The prospect of clashing blades with Tion's beasts filled him with visible euphoria. "As for you," he threatened, nodding at Djerun, "you know the rules. Keep an eye on our undead mason. I don't want him stabbing me in the back." He threw off his cumbersome cloak and looked expectantly at Tungdil.

The company's leader hefted his ax, having already decided that the fourthling monarch deserved their aid. "Stand by our rivals like true children of the Smith," he told them, preparing to charge. "Death to our enemies!"

They barreled along the corridor and found themselves in a small, dimly lit hall filled with hairy, hunchbacked bцgnilim. Clad in armor several sizes too big for them and wielding maces and notched swords, the squawking creatures were shoving their way up a stone staircase at the top of which towered a statue of Vraccas cast in gold.

Blocking their path was Gandogar, as godlike in his heavy armor as the sculpture he was protecting. Gripping his double-bladed ax with both hands, he mowed down the first wave of aggressors with a single swipe. His diamond-studded helmet showered the walls and pillars with dappled light, adding to his heavenly aura.

At the bottom of the steps lay dead or dying beasts that had fallen from a height of ten paces. The stairs dripped with slimy olive and bottle-green blood, which further hindered the bцgnilim's attack.

Yet the enemy showed no sign of retreating. Pushing and shoving, the beasts fought their way to the front, only to be cut down by Gandogar's swooping blade.

Boпndil raced ahead of his companions, sounding his bugle to herald their advance.

"Here's another dwarf who's not afraid of Tion's beasts!" Laughing maniacally he threw himself into the battle, becoming Ireheart the Furious from whom there was no escape. His axes seemed to seek out his enemies instinctively, zeroing in on unprotected flesh and damaged mail. At the end of his first sally, six bцgnilim lay twitching on the floor.

Ireheart powered on, channeling a path through the hordes, with Tungdil and the others following in his wake. Even the usually timorous Goпmgar launched himself into the battle. For the first time he was prepared to fight and even die.

During the commotion Bavragor succeeded in tearing off his leather manacles. Not possessing any weapons, he tore the creatures apart with his hands, thrusting his blood-smeared muscular fingers deep into their flesh to inflict the fatal wound. The bцgnilim fought back with their swords, but the revenant continued undeterred, stopping only to seize two maces and swing them with terrible strength.

Stooping low, Djerun swiped at the knee-high creatures with his club. They crashed down amid their comrades, squashing some of them with their weight.

"To the stairs!" bellowed Tungdil on seeing that Gandogar was overextended. The king seemed to be the only survivor among his group; none of the others were visible amid the mass of heaving bodies.

The company closed ranks to thrash their way forward. Djerun stayed at the foot of the steps and repelled the advancing bцgnilim with murderous force, while the others worked their way up, engaging their enemy from behind until the last beast on the stairs had fallen. The ruler of the fourthling kingdom stood before them on the steps.

Gandogar looked dreadful, his face pale, haggard, and drawn. A mighty weapon had left two deep gashes in his bloodied chain mail.

"My king!" Goпmgar said joyfully. Not even the present danger could prevent him from sinking to one knee.

Tungdil gave him a brief nod. "Where are the others?"

"Dead," he said, struggling to regain his composure. "We need to get out of here before-"

Five figures, broader, uglier, and nastier than orcs, appeared at the far end of the hall. They were four paces tall and looked incredibly strong.

"Ogres!" Boпndil clapped excitedly. "This is where it gets really fun! Hey, Armor-Face, I'm leaving the tiddlers to you." He knocked the butts of his axes together and licked his lips. "This is more like it."

The smaller beasts drew back without a murmur, allowing the ogres to pass.

"The rest of you run," commanded Andфkai. "Djerun and I will keep them busy. We'll see how far my remaining magic gets us. Go!"

Even as she lowered her sword and began the incantation, a thunderous rumble filled the hall and a giant tore itself out of the flesh of the mountain, taking shape beside the statue. Cavernous eyes stared at the maga from a long stony face, and a fist sped down toward her.

Andфkai spotted the danger just in time and diverted her magic toward the unexpected foe. She managed to stop the blow, but was brought to her knees by the effort. "A golem," she coughed. "There must be a wizard controlling it. Find him and kill him before my strength deserts me. I can't hold off the creature for long."

A great cry went up among the surviving bцgnilim when they saw their apparently invincible enemies struggling to repel the new threat. The squawking and shouting grew louder until the creatures resolved to try their luck again, advancing in a wave of arms, legs, teeth, and whirling weapons.

The onslaught of bцgnilim drove Djerun slowly up the stairway until he stopped and opened his visor, steeping his assailants in a beam of purple light. The hall echoed with his terrible, menacing roar and the whimpering bцgnilim fled from the armored giant. Djerun followed them, lashing out with his sword and mace to regain the lost ground.

"He's over there!" Narmora pointed to a man-sized figure in the malachite robes of Nфd'onn's school. He was standing a hundred paces away, flanked by a mob of muscular orcs who served as his bodyguards. It was clear from his gestures that he was responsible for steering the golem's attack.

"They're determined not to let us near the furnace," said Tungdil. Nфd'onn doesn't want us to forge Keenfire. We're on the right track.

Gandogar looked at the swelling ranks of beasts that were piling into the hall. "It's hopeless. The door to the furnace is on the far side of the adjoining hall. It's sealed with dwarven runes so the beasts can't get in. We were almost inside when they ambushed us. They must have known we were coming."

Tungdil's mind whirred feverishly. "Everyone with a role to play in forging Keenfire needs to make it through that door. You or I will go with them. Since I never intended to be crowned high king, I cede my place to you, King Gandogar. My only concern is the safety of Girdlegard and our kinsfolk." He looked his rival in the eye. "Narmora will explain her role in this later, but I need you to promise you'll do everything you can to help her slay the magus."

Gandogar bowed his head. "I swear in the name of Vraccas our Creator and by the memory of Giselbert Ironeye, founding father of this kingdom, that I shall fight the magus to the end." They shook hands. "Which doesn't mean to say you won't be there too," he added.

They turned to face the enemy and raised their weapons. Tungdil placed the bugle to his lips and sounded the attack. Giselbert's Folk, Fifthling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle Djerun led the advance, flanked by the dwarves, with Rodario, torches in both hands, following close behind, shielded by Furgas, who was doing his best to fend off the bцgnilim and protect the precious flames.

Back on the steps, Andфkai was still under siege from the golem. All her efforts were focused on defending herself, leaving her no time to deal with the famulus and stop the attack at its source. "Hurry!" she shouted hoarsely. "Another couple of charms and my magic will be spent."

"Leave it to me," volunteered Narmora. Launching herself into the air, she alighted on Djerun's shoulders and pushed off again, soaring another five paces to land on a bцgnil's head. In no time she was away again, using the heads and shoulders of the bewildered beasts as stepping stones. She had almost reached the famulus when a dagger nicked her calf. She missed her step and fell among the howling brutes.

"Narmora!" cried Furgas, so overcome with horror that he neglected his duty as Rodario's guard. In a flash the beasts surged forward and closed in on the impresario.

"Shoo!" he shouted, thrusting the torches in their direction. Squealing, the bцgnilim backed away from the tongues of fire, only to be struck by flying sparks. In an instant they were reeling backward, consumed by flames. The dragon fire burned them to ashes before they had time to retreat.

Rodario's strategy guaranteed his own safety, but at the cost of the torches, whose light was ebbing after numerous brushes with the bцgnilim's swords. At length he was left with a single torch. "Furgas," he shouted, trying to alert his companion to his plight. "Furgas, I need your help!"

But Furgas was still staring anxiously at the spot where Narmora had fallen.

"For the love of Vraccas, wake up!" Balyndis scolded him. She fought her way through the fray and thrust herself between the bцgnilim and the impresario.

All of a sudden Narmora appeared out of nowhere, looming up behind the famulus's bodyguards and hewing the first orc's head with a mighty blow. She dispatched the other beasts before they had time to respond.

"Very impressive," the famulus said furiously, pointing his staff in her direction, "but not as effective as this."

A thick bolt of light shot toward Narmora, who darted nimbly aside. The bolt latched on to her movement.

Just as it seemed certain that Narmora would be hit, the bolt struck an invisible obstacle and dissipated harmlessly. It was instantly followed by a powerful flash of lightning that arced toward the famulus from the direction of the statue. There was a terrible crackle as it seared through his flesh, the flames subsiding only when nothing remained but a pile of reeking cinders. The next moment, the golem collapsed. Huge chunks of rock rained down on the enemy troops, squashing dozens of bцgnilim and flattening three of the ogres who were too ponderous to escape.

The two remaining ogres stopped in their tracks and stared fearfully at the triumphant maga before retreating into the adjoining hall and vanishing from sight.

Narmora gave Andфkai a wave and the maga returned the greeting, then drew her sword in a single fluid movement. It was the only defense she had left.

"Excellent, excellent, so Narmora's still alive. Unless there's another lead actor you'd rather work with, you might want to lend me a hand," the impresario said to Furgas. "At this rate, the fabulous Rodario will die a heroic death."

Andфkai abandoned the statue and stormed down the staircase, her blade wreaking havoc among the enemy troops.

"She always ruins everything," Boпndil said testily. "I was looking forward to those ogres." He threw himself with added fury on the fleeing bцgnilim. "At least I can have some fun with you."

Disregarding Tungdil's warnings, Boпndil chased after his victims, slicing into their necks from behind and shooing them along as if he were herding pigs. On reaching the doorway to the adjacent hall, he came to a sudden halt.

"What's wrong? Don't tell me your brain's caught up with you," Goпmgar said spitefully, hurrying with the others to join him. They stopped and froze as well.

"I say we leave this scene out of the play," Rodario whispered hoarsely. "I have a feeling we won't enjoy it."

The hall was at least three thousand paces long and two thousand paces wide. It was obvious what purpose the chamber had once served, for among the disused blast furnaces, ramps, and rope pulleys lay abandoned slag heaps and scattered mounds of pig iron and coal.

Now a thousand orcs, bцgnilim, and trolls occupied the fifthlings' smelting works, sealing the entry to the Dragon Fire furnace.

The defeated ogres and bцgnilim had already reached the foremost line of beasts and were hastily relaying what had happened in the adjoining hall. An angry murmur swept through the chamber as the beasts drew their weapons, growling in readiness for the fight.

"It's…" Boпndil was lost for words. He lowered his axes in an admission of defeat. The vast army was more than just another of the big challenges that he was so fond of. Even he could see that the odds were stacked overwhelmingly against the plucky band.

"Do you think you could fly to the other side and take us with you like you did for Goпmgar?" Tungdil whispered to the maga.

"The battle with the golem and his master drained my last reserves of magic. There's nothing left." Andфkai's eyes scanned the crowds bitterly. "Had I known what awaited us, I would have held back, but even then…"

"Let's go home," Goпmgar implored them. He turned to Gandogar. "Your Majesty-"

He stopped short, silenced by a look from Tungdil. "We can't go home now," he said. "We'll get to the furnace or die trying." He squared his shoulders stubbornly. "We're Girdlegard's last line of resistance. No one else is going to make it past this hall."

"Then it's decided." To Goпmgar's horror, Gandogar gave his assent. "We'll stay and fight together." He raised his double-bladed ax.

"We're dwarves!" thundered Ireheart, who had finally found his voice. Tucking in his head, he squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. "We never give in," he bellowed at the beasts, beating his axes together until the smelting works echoed with the noise. "Do you hear that, you worthless scoundrels? It's the sound of your deaths!"

Tungdil offered a silent prayer to Vraccas. "There's nothing for it but to fight our way through." He looked into the faces of his companions. "There's a good chance that not all of us will make it. What matters is that the right ones survive." He glanced at Balyndis. "I'm expendable. I'll gladly give my life if it means Girdlegard and its peoples have a future."

Furgas's eyes filled with tears as he kissed Narmora passionately: She was among those who had to survive at all costs. She stroked his cheek tenderly.

"One to a hundred," was Boпndil's assessment of their respective numbers. "It could be worse." This time he blew the bugle, sounding the ancient dwarven call to war. It was answered by hostile shouts. Boпndil glanced at his companions. "Race you to the other side."

After five hundred paces, they had fought themselves into an impasse, unable to advance or retreat.

Surrounded on all sides by the foulest of creatures, the company stood shoulder to shoulder and faced the prospect of fighting until their arms were too heavy to deflect the deadly blows.

Worse still, they had lost Rodario in the first ten paces. He had been swallowed among the mass of orcish bodies and by the time Tungdil noticed his absence, the impresario was nowhere to be seen.

With Rodario, they lost the dragon fire with which the furnace was to be lit.

We're so close now, Vraccas. "We need to go back," he shouted over his shoulder. "We've lost Rodario and the only torch."

Andфkai was about to reply when roaring flames shot toward the ceiling.

"Get back," a voice rasped imperiously from the door. "Let me deal with them."

The noise stopped instantly. In a flash, a path opened through the rabble, the beasts drawing away to let their master pass. A corpulent figure in malachite robes strode toward them, extinguishing the last spark of hope that Tungdil had been kindling with dwarven obstinacy.

"Nфd'onn." An awed whisper swept through the ranks of beasts, who were staring at the magus in fascination, some bowing or falling to their knees.

"I thought I would find the villains here," he rasped, his voice giving way to a cough. A bright red globule of saliva spattered onto the face of a bцgnil whose tongue shot out hungrily and licked it away. "I sent my servants here to ambush you. I wanted to have the pleasure of destroying you myself."

An orc leaped forward, whipping out his sword. "Let me do it for you, Master," he said slavishly.

"Silence, ingrate!" The magus stretched a hand. There was a flash of light and flames shot out of his fingers, setting the orc ablaze. The beast staggered backward, stumbling in agony until at last he lay still. "Out of my way," commanded Nфd'onn. "If you crowd me, I can't destroy them without destroying you." His pale face was almost entirely obscured by a cowl, with only a chink of white skin visible through the folds of cloth.

"I'll do what I can," Andфkai whispered to Tungdil. "The rest of you run." She pushed her fair hair back from her severe visage, seized her sword, and prepared to strike. All of a sudden she stopped.

Tungdil sensed her hesitation. "What's wrong?"

She seemed puzzled. "I can't see his staff. Nфd'onn would never be parted with it, no more than I would go anywhere without my sword. It must be an illusion."

"Ye gods! It's Rodario!" hissed Furgas, trying not to blow his friend's cover by looking too relieved.

Tungdil stared in disbelief. The impresario's transformation was as complete as it had been on the stage, but now he was playing to an audience who would kill him and eat him if his performance was anything less than faultless. How does he do it?

"As for you," the sham magus rasped at the company, "you shall suffer. But first I shall be merciful: You may advance to the forge and touch the hallowed door. Only then will my servants rip you to pieces. Is that not exquisitely cruel?" The beasts cheered excitedly.

This time the crowd parted on the other side of the company, allowing them to proceed through a narrow corridor toward the locked door. The sham magus followed behind them, swaying, coughing, and whipping his followers into a frenzy as he threatened the company with increasingly diabolical fates.

They were ten paces from the door when the impresario swayed more vigorously than usual and stumbled.

"Stop!" Tungdil grabbed Narmora and Furgas before they could rush to his aid. "You'll give the game away for all of us."

The costumed Rodario struggled upright. A helmet rolled out from beneath his robes and his left leg seemed suddenly a good deal shorter. Without the makeshift stilt that had allowed him to tower majestically at the real magus's height, the fakery was obvious. It took the beasts a few moments to fathom the situation.

"That's not Nфd'onn!" An orc rushed toward him, brandishing his sword, as the company closed ranks around the hobbling Rodario and the battle recommenced.

"What have you done with the torch?" demanded Tungdil.

Clutching his side, the impresario coughed up another mouthful of blood; this time he was wounded and not just relying on his props. Even so, he managed a smile as he held up a small lantern. The wick was burning brightly. "No self- respecting magus would dream of carrying a torch."

Their courage restored, they fought their way more determinedly than ever toward the door, while the orcs pushed aside their smaller colleagues and attacked with full force. They were determined to put an end to the indefatigable men and dwarves.

Every member of the company was struck by an ax, sword, or mace. Some of the wounds were more serious than others, but the dwarves stood their ground. Tungdil focused on deciphering the runic password that would gain them entry to the forge. For once his knowledge failed him.

"I can't read the runes," he cried despairingly to Andфkai. "It must be a riddle."

"How awfully inconvenient," gasped Rodario. He clutched the door, trying to hold himself up as his legs gave way. "I don't expect my death to trouble you greatly, but remember this: Girdlegard has lost a luminary of the stage." He closed his eyes and slumped to the ground, suffocating the lantern as he fell. The flame flickered dangerously.

"No!" murmured Gandogar, who had been watching the dying actor out of the corner of his eye. "We can't let the flame go out!" As he turned to save the lantern, an enormous orc seized his chance and waded in. With a terrible shout he thrust his notched sword toward the king's back.

"Your Majesty!" Goпmgar realized midshout that the warning would come too late. Without thinking, he threw himself-shield first and head ducked-into the path of the blade.

With a high-pitched ring the sword struck the edge of the shield, forcing it down. The dwarf's head and neck appeared above the rim.

The orc bared its teeth, expelling a foul rush of breath, which swept through Goпmgar's beard. The beast's long blade settled on the shield, using its contours to draw a perfect line from right to left.

Goпmgar thrust his blade forward, but it was no match for the orcish sword. His stumpy weapon shattered, shards of metal jangling to the floor, and the sword continued, cleaving through skin, flesh, sinew, and bone.

As the artisan's head fell to the right, his twitching body toppled left, brushing against Balyndis, who let out a furious howl and swung her ax with fresh savagery.

Gandogar turned in time to see Goпmgar die in his stead. Even as the head hit the floor, the flame died, a thin wisp of smoke snaking its way to the ceiling. "May Tion take you!" Gandogar raised his ax and split the murderer from skull to chest.

With two of their number dead and the dragon fire extinguished, the company struggled against the heaviness in their arms. Their resistance was weakening.

"Did you get us this far in order to destroy us, Vraccas?"

Tungdil shouted accusingly as he drove his ax between the jaws of an ore.

At that moment there was a welcome grinding noise and the right-hand panel of the door swung open.

The deep tones of a bugle rang out, echoing the melody that Boпndil had sounded at the beginning of their attack. Stocky figures streamed through the doors and threw themselves on the beasts. Their axes and hammers raged mercilessly among the hordes.

It took Tungdil a good few moments to realize that their rescuers were dwarves.

One of their number, a warrior whose polished armor outshone everything save the diamonds on his belt, nodded toward the open door.

"Hurry, we can't hold them back for long," he bellowed, his deep voice sending shivers down Tungdil's spine.

He was more used to seeing the warrior's features cast in vraccasium and gold, but he had encountered the visage often enough during their long march through the fifthling kingdom to know exactly who he was: Giselbert Ironeye, father of Giselbert's folk.

"I thought you were…"

"We'll talk later," the ancient dwarf told him. "Just get your company inside."

Tungdil gave the order, Furgas hoisted Rodario to his shoulders, and Gandogar carried Goпmgar's corpse. As soon as the group was safely in the forge, Giselbert's dwarves abandoned their attack and slammed the door behind them. A moment later there was a furious hammering and pounding, but blind rage alone was not enough to breach the door.

"Welcome," Giselbert said solemnly. "Whoever you may be, I hope your coming is a good omen."

There were ten of them in all: ashen-faced dwarves with absent eyes that made them seem vaguely trancelike. Each was clad in lavishly splendid mail and their beards reached to their belts. Determination, a Vraccas-given trait of their race, was stamped on every face.

"My warriors and I have been fighting Tion's minions since the fall of my kingdom eleven hundred cycles ago," said Giselbert, who seemed the most venerable, the most majestic of them all. "We are the last of the fifthlings, killed by the дlfar and resurrected by the Perished Land. As you can see, we chose not to serve it."

Tungdil shot a quick glance at Bavragor, who was covered from head to toe in every imaginable shade of green. Orc and bцgnil blood was dripping from his hands and splashing to the floor.

"It takes a lot to kill an undead dwarf, but most of our companions were eventually slain. The rest of us retreated to the furnace, our folk's most treasured relic." He held Tungdil's gaze.

"And you're sure you don't hate other dwarves and want to murder every living creature?"

Giselbert shook his head. "We taught ourselves not to. In eleven hundred cycles you can learn to stifle the pestilent hatred." His eyes shifted to the door. "The creatures used to content themselves with guarding the entrance, but during the last few orbits they've laid siege to the doors. I daresay the change has something to do with you."

"Very likely." Tungdil ran through the introductions and gave a hasty account of the threat facing Girdlegard and the reason for their coming. "But it's all been in vain. We were supposed to light the furnace with dragon fire, but the flame went out while we were fighting by the door."

Giselbert clapped a hand on his shoulder and a kindly smile spread across the creases and wrinkles of his ancient face. "You are wrong to give up hope. The fire is burning as fiercely as ever." He stopped and listened. "The furnace has always been under our protection. Vraccas must have known we would need it one day." He and his companions stepped aside to reveal the rest of the chamber.

The hall, fifty paces long by thirty wide, boasted twenty abandoned hearths, lined up in two rows, and four times as many anvils, arranged around an enormous furnace ablaze with fierce white flames.

Countless pillars supported the ceiling eighty paces above and the walls were filled with neat rows of tools: hammers, tongs, chisels, files, and all manner of implements needed for the blacksmith's craft. Fine sand covered the floor and the upper reaches of the chamber were coated in a thick layer of soot. A stone stairway led to the flue.

The bellows and grindstones were attached to metal chains that ran through a system of rollers and pulleys to the ceiling, where they looped through the rock. Tungdil was instantly reminded of the lifting apparatus in the underground network.

He found himself imagining the smithy in its heyday when Girdlegard's finest weapons and most splendid armor had been forged by Giselbert's dwarves. He breathed out in relief and prayed to Vraccas to excuse his lack of faith. "That's the best news we've had since Ogre's Death," he said cheerfully. We're nearly there. And to think I'd resigned myself to failure…

"He's alive!" exclaimed Furgas. "His heart is beating! Rodario's alive!"

"Let me take a look at him." Andфkai swept back her hair, knelt beside the wounded impresario, and inspected his wound. "He's had a blow to the head and a slight gouge to the side. It's nothing too serious," she announced, cleaning the afflicted area with Bavragor's brandy to stave off infection.

The impresario's eyes fluttered open. "Thank you, Estimable Maga," he gasped, gritting his teeth as the alcohol stung his raw flesh. "Had I known, I would have begged the orc to strike me on the mouth so you could kiss me back to life."

"If you were a warrior, things might have been different between us," she said, responding remarkably favorably to the flirtation.

"A good actor can be many things, even a warrior."

"But it's only an act."

"I'm a warrior in spirit. Isn't that enough?"

"Maybe," she said, "but your weapon has fought for so many causes in every kingdom that I couldn't rely on you not to swap sides." Her blue eyes looked at him smilingly as she patted his cheek. "Save your charm for the women who adore you."

Giselbert pointed to a quiet corner of the smithy. "Lie down and get some rest. The doors won't fall; we'll see to it that they don't. It's important that you recover your strength before we get going with Keenfire. There are some matters we need to attend to before we can forge the blade."

"Such as…?"

The ancient monarch chuckled when he saw the look of alarm on Tungdil's face. "It can wait until you're rested. I'm sorry we can't offer you any sustenance, but you'll be safe here, at least."

The travelers were too tired to do anything but follow his advice; even Boпndil was so spent that he forgot to be suspicious of their undead hosts. In any case, no one could claim that the revenants weren't putting their lives to good use.

Tungdil went to join Gandogar, who was sitting in silence beside Goпmgar's corpse. The fourthling king had removed his battered helmet, his brown hair resting on his mighty shoulders. "He died trying to save me," he said somberly. "He threw himself in front of that orc, even though he must have known the brute would kill him." He glanced at Tungdil. "I didn't think he had it in him. I was pleased when you picked Goпmgar because he seemed too much the artisan and too little the dwarf. I misjudged him. He was a dwarf, all right."

Tungdil placed the pouch of diamonds in Gandogar's hands. "You're our diamond cutter now. You must finish his task for him."

"Gladly, although I can't promise to emulate his skill. Goпmgar was a far better artisan than I am."

Tungdil paused before broaching a rather delicate subject. "There's something I need to tell you, Gandogar." He quickly told him of Gundrabur's plan and Bislipur's trickery, and finished by producing Sverd's collar as proof.

The king recognized the choker at once. "By the beard of Goпmdil, I wish these accusations were unfounded, but the loathsome collar speaks for itself. Sverd was in thrall to his master; he could never have acted alone." He shook his head incredulously. "How could Bislipur be so blind? How could I be so blind?"

"So you don't want to wage war on the elves?"

"Absolutely not! Isn't Girdlegard in enough trouble already?" He took a deep breath. "Honestly, Tungdil, nothing could be farther from my thoughts. Gundrabur was right after all. We've been through so much since the start of this mission that the thought of another war…No, an alliance is what we need." He stopped and frowned. "I'm not saying we have to be best friends with the elves or anything. The way they betrayed the fifthlings was-"

"We weren't betrayed by elves," interrupted a fifthling who had approached in time to hear the end of their exchange. His thick black beard hung in decorative cords that reached to his chest.

"Your folk was betrayed by the pointy-ears," the king insisted. "I saw the evidence myself."

"Evidence provided by Bislipur," Tungdil reminded him.

The stranger gave them a wan smile. "My name is Glandallin Hammerstrike of the clan of the Striking Hammers." He turned to Gandogar. "I witnessed the terrible demise of our kingdom, and I saw the traitor who opened our gates."

"Yes," Gandogar said stubbornly. "A backstabbing elf."

"It was a dwarf." He paused as the others, including Balyndis, who had joined them, stared in disbelief. "Glamdolin Strongarm was the traitor who spoke the incantation and opened our gates."

"But why?"

"It was the opportunity he had been waiting for. That dreadful morning he pretended to succumb to the fever that the дlfar had spread among our folk. The battle was fierce and no one gave him a second thought. He skulked down to the gates and cleared the way for Tion's hordes. It was his doing that the дlfar found their way into our underground halls and took us by surprise."

"But I don't see…"

"He was a thirdling," Glandallin said flatly. "A child of Lorimbur, a dwarf killer, who inveigled himself into our folk and masked his true intentions so cunningly that we suspected nothing. He waited until we were fatally weakened, then struck the final blow. He died by my ax but was raised by the Perished Land to incant the secret runes. After our deaths we captured him and questioned him. Glamdolin was beheaded, never to rise again."

"I hope you're writing this down for me," Rodario whispered to Furgas. "We'll make our fortunes with this play!"

"So the elves had nothing to do with it!" said Tungdil, delighted that the path was clear for an alliance. Bislipur's treacherous scheme has come to naught.

They buried Goпmgar body in a corner of the forge, erected a pile of stones to mark the grave, and dedicated his soul to Vraccas. As soon as they felt sufficiently rested, they began their preparations for forging the mighty ax. "'The blade must be made of the purest, hardest steel, with diamonds encrusting the bit and an alloy of every known precious metal filling the inlay and the runes. The spurs should be hewn from stone and the grip sculpted from wood of the sigurdaisy tree,'" recited Tungdil, reading from the manuscript that would serve as their guide.

They stacked the gold, silver, palandium, and vraccasium neatly on the table along with the pouch of diamonds and the sigurdaisy wood for the haft. The fifthlings furnished them with iron ore for the blade and stone for the spurs.

Tungdil realized with alarm what it was they were missing. "We didn't bring any tionium," he said, scolding himself for his laxness. "You don't have any, I suppose?"

There was a short silence. "Not in the forge," said Glandallin. "We were never especially fond of Tion's metal, so there wasn't much call for it."

Narmora unhooked an amulet from her neck and laid it on the table. "It's pure tionium. My mother gave it to me to ward off the forces of good. Since I've allied myself with them, there's not much point in wearing it. I just hope there's enough for you to use."

Tungdil gave her a grateful look. His doubts and reservations about the half дlf had been canceled out by her deeds. "Girdlegard is in your debt twice over. No matter how expertly we fashion the weapon, Keenfire would be powerless without tionium-or without the undergroundlings' foe."

"It's the least I can do, given the amount of suffering my mother's race has caused," she demurred.

He glanced at the glowing furnace. "Shall we begin?"

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," said Giselbert. "The furnace is alight, but the temperature isn't high enough. Usually, we'd use the bellows to breathe life into Dragon Fire, but the equipment has rusted and we haven't been able to get it to work."

"Thank goodness for that!" Furgas leaped to his feet. "What with Narmora being the savior of Girdlegard, I was beginning to think I was just a hanger-on." He chuckled good-humoredly and the others joined in. "I hope you're ready for a demonstration of my expertise."

He was rewarded with a kiss from Narmora, who picked up her ax to practice wards, attacks, and strikes with Boпndil. Andфkai sat watching them, while Djerun, motionless as usual, crouched beside her. For some reason Tungdil was half expecting the helmet to give off a purple glow.

"You're wondering what's behind the visor, aren't you?" said Narmora, recovering her breath. She pressed the canteen of water thirstily to her lips.

He turned to her. "Is there something I should know?"

Narmora leaned against the wall of polished rock, still panting with exertion. Boпndil was a hard taskmaster and the combat sessions left her exhausted. "When I was little, my mother told me stories about a terrifying being, the king among Tion's and Samusin's creatures, the predator of predators, the hunter who hunted his own kind, destroying the weak and fighting the strong to make them stronger-or to kill them if their ascendancy was undeserved." Narmora dabbed the sweat from her brow. "She said that his eyes shone with violet light and that weaker beings fled for their lives at the sight of him. All the beasts are terrified of Samusin's son. She used to scare the living daylights out of me with those stories." She grinned, then averted her gaze, careful not to glance in the giant's direction. "And back then I didn't know that they were true."

The explanation didn't take Tungdil entirely by surprise. Samusin was Andфkai's chosen deity, and she would doubtless feel honored to be traveling with a creature who was said to be his son. Whether or not Djerun was more than just a servant to the maga was a question that Tungdil was reluctant to ponder. "No wonder the bцgnilim bolted."

"Most creatures would run away from him, beasts of Tion or not." Narmora got up to resume her drills.

He watched as Balyndis kindled one of the hearths with ordinary flames. After stripping off her mail and leather jerkin, she donned a leather apron that covered her chest and her midriff, although her undergarments left a good deal of flesh on show. He made his way over to see what she was doing. "What are you up to?"

"Making steel," she said, signaling for him to tie her apron at the back. Standing behind her, he caught his first proper glimpse of female skin. It was pink and covered in wispy down. There hadn't been much opportunity for washing of late, so she had a strong smell about her, but it wasn't unpleasant-not clean, exactly, but still quite arousing. "The blast furnaces are on the other side of the door, so I'm having to smelt the metal by other means. It's a trick of the trade."

Balyndis's apron strings were safely knotted, but Tungdil found himself clasping her sturdy hips. Her skin felt smooth and warm. He stroked the fine hairs.

"Come here so you can see what I'm doing." He did as he was told. "First we have to get rid of the impurities, which is why I'm placing the ore in a shallow pan. The heat will burn them off. Unfortunately, it means we can produce only small quantities of steel at a time, but it should be enough for a blade." She stood there, waiting patiently for the temperature to rise and the iron to melt. "Surely you've done this before?"

"No," he said regretfully. "I was only a blacksmith."

"How many strikes for a horseshoe nail?"

"Seven, if I concentrate. Nine, if I don't."

"Not bad," she said with a smile that made his cheeks flush redder than the molten ore. "It takes me seven strikes too."

"How many for an ax?"

"Seven, if I concentrate; nine, if I don't. Orbits, that is, not strikes. Since time is of the essence right now, I'll work straight through and it should be done in five orbits, without the quality suffering at all." She drew his attention to Giselbert, who was waving at them from the doors. "I think he wants to show you something."

Tungdil raised his hand to indicate that he was coming. "It's hard to believe that he and the others are older than anything we've ever encountered, save the mountains themselves."

"And to think that they're revenants as well. It's so sad that their souls were stolen by the Perished Land. I wish there was something we could do to get them back."

"Only Vraccas can restore their souls, but you're right, it must be awful for them." He hurried over to the anxious Giselbert.

"The beasts are preparing to attack."

Tungdil studied the heavy metal doors. They were reinforced with steel bindings and protected with Vraccas's runes. "I thought you said the forge was safe?"

"It was-until you gave them a reason to breach the doors. They know you're here and they know you're forging a weapon that will bring about their doom. Their priorities have changed." He pointed to a peephole and Tungdil peered through.

In the course of a single orbit the ragged hordes had become an orderly army under the дlfar's command.

A short distance from the doors was a growing pile of pillars and stalactites, torn down and stacked by a unit of ogres. Beyond that, further divisions of beasts were putting the finishing touches on what looked like hoists.

"You're right; it looks serious. I'll have to warn the others. What do we have in the way of defenses?"

Giselbert raised his ax.

"Is that all?"

The fifthling raised another ax and gave a wry smile. "It's not enough, I know. We-"

He was interrupted by muffled shrieks and jangling armor; ogres bellowed, orcs snarled anxiously, bцgnilim yelped in terror.

What's going on out there? Tungdil pressed his face to the peephole just as the fires went out in the encampment. Dwarf-sized warriors with pale faces poured out of the darkness, swarming among the beasts and cleaving through their ranks. They seemed to be deliberately beheading their opponents so that none could be raised from the dead.

The attack was over in moments. The flames were rekindled and the invaders disappeared without a trace.

The spirits of the dead dwarves'. He thought back to the pale figures and their mysterious warning. Tion's hordes had colonized their realm against their wishes, and the vengeful ghosts had made them pay. "What do you know about dwarven ghosts?"

"Ghosts? Nothing…but I'm glad they've decided to help."

Tungdil hurried to tell the others of the imminent attack. Everyone not involved in forging Keenfire was put to work hewing boulders to barricade the doors.

All that mattered for the moment was keeping the beasts at bay. Later they would have to figure out a way of getting themselves and the weapon out of the forge.

The company's faith in Furgas proved well founded. It took him less than an orbit to get to grips with the bellows. According to him, the pulley system worked in much the same way as a stage curtain, a parallel that he found especially apt.

Having located the damage, he repaired it, improvising a solution with the presence of mind and ingenuity befitting a prop master who had rescued plenty of performances from mechanical disaster. He even got the grindstone turning again.

Meanwhile, the others continued their efforts to barricade the doors. The beasts had already launched an initial offensive, which failed because the stalactites shattered against the doors.

When the second orbit dawned, Gandogar began work on the diamonds. The environment could scarcely have been less conducive to his task, but he was fortunate to have use of Goпmgar's tools. Bavragor sat at a table and fashioned the spurs, his hands moving with the mechanical jerkiness of a puppet on strings.

Giselbert prepared the casts for the precious metals, while Balyndis threw herself into forging the blade and its shaft, which itself was the length of a forearm.

She set up her workshop in the middle of the chamber near Dragon Fire. With every sigh of the machine-driven bellows, the coals hissed and crackled, sometimes spitting white flames.

Her work was spread between three anvils of different sizes and shapes. Time after time she reached confidently for the appropriate tool among the rows of rivet tongs, wolf jaw tongs, duck bill tongs, and six dozen or so similar implements, extracted the red hot steel from the fire, hammered it approximately into shape, and replaced it in its fiery bed of coals as soon as the metal cooled.

Tungdil had never seen such a magnificent forge. Whereas he was accustomed to four types of hammer, there was a choice of fifty and all with different heads, not to mention the chisels, files, saws, and other tools that Balyndis employed with obvious skill.

"I could use your help," she said suddenly, handing him some tongs. "Draw out the steel to the thickness of a knife blade, halve the metal with your ax, and lay the sections on top of each other."

Tungdil did as instructed, reaching into the furnace with his long-handled tongs. White flames licked the coals, emitting a phenomenal warmth.

The steel was white-hot when he placed it on the anvil. He drew it out quickly and returned it to the flames, waiting for it to glow before transferring it to the anvil, dividing it in half, and hammering the two sections vigorously into a single strip.

It had been so long since he had last stood at the anvil that he felt a rush of elation as he brought down the hammer and tapped out a rhythm. This was the wizardry of the dwarves, their ability to induce metal to perform wondrous miracles that a magus or famulus would never understand.

He glanced at Balyndis happily; without realizing, they were hammering in unison.

At length he laid down his tools. "I ought to go back to shifting boulders before the others start accusing me of ruining the blade. How many layers will it have when it's finished?"

"About three hundred," she replied, still hammering. "It's good steel so it can take it. Thanks for the help."

Tungdil gave her a wave and joined the working party at the doors. The fifthlings hurried back and forth tirelessly, their undead bodies able to function without rest, but Tungdil and Boпndil were only too aware of the importance of conserving their strength. Most of their provisions had been eaten already and the rest would have to be rationed until they left the forge.

"Vraccas must be really farsighted," said Boпndil after a time. "To think that he brought us all together like this!'

"What do you mean?" asked Tungdil, surprised to hear the warrior pondering such matters.

Boпndil, his skin bronzed from orbits in the sun, turned his bearded face toward him. "Each one of us has a vital role to play. We needed you to come up with the plan in the first place, Balyndis and the others to make the blade, the impresario to save us from the runts, Furgas to repair the bellows, and the pointy-eared actress to strike the magus down." He sat down on a rock. "There couldn't be a better team…"

"What about Goпmgar?"

"Er… Well, we needed Goпmgar to save Gandogar."

"Aren't you forgetting the warrior twins? You and your brother wiped out anyone who stood in our way and kept fighting when others would have lost their nerve. We wouldn't have got this far if it weren't for you." He gave him a hearty thump on the back.

Boпndil grinned. "More incredibly, we turned our scholar into a proper, respectable dwarf. Living with the long-uns sent your instincts to sleep, but we've woken them up for you, Tungdil." He made to strike him with his ax. "Truth be told, you're pretty handy with a weapon. You must have been born a warrior."

Born a warrior. Tungdil was painfully reminded that he still knew nothing of his birth.

For once Boпndil picked up on his mood. "Cheer up, Tungdil! If the fourthlings won't have you, you can always live with us," he promised breezily. "I'll swear by the beard of Beroпn that you're the illegitimate cousin of my estranged aunt thirty-four times removed." They both laughed.

Giselbert, who had been peering through the peephole at regular intervals, headed over from the door. His expression was grave. "They've fashioned new battering rams. This time they might actually work."

"Is there any other way out?" asked Tungdil. "Rodario's act won't fool them again." He looked up at the chimney towering above the furnace. "Would that do the trick?"

"Our scholar is full of inspiration," Boпndil said admiringly.

"It might, but the stairs are pretty steep."

"We'll manage," Tungdil assured him. "Nothing can stop us from saving Girdlegard, especially not now that the ax is almost finished."

Just then, an almighty crash shook the walls as if the mountain were collapsing around them.

The doors shuddered, fragments of rock rained all around them, and the metal panels strained and groaned. The attack had begun in earnest.